


Three Years

by Intent_To_Stay



Category: Star Wars, Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Culture, Gen, Multi, Nonlinear Narrative, Obi-wan is younger now because i forgot he was 25 when i started writing the obidala, Political Alliances, Revolution, Slavery, Surgery, Symbolic Figures, Tatooine Slave Culture
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-02
Updated: 2017-10-05
Packaged: 2018-09-14 03:15:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,538
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9157780
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Intent_To_Stay/pseuds/Intent_To_Stay
Summary: Anakin Skywalker is nine when Jedi and Queens and Angels fall onto his desert world. He doesn’t leave with them.





	1. Nimku

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings for graphic depictions of medical surgery and for slavery. 
> 
> This is heavily inspired by fialleril's Tatooine Slave Culture and her Double Agent Vader works. I plan to expand this AU, because i love??? revolution??? so much??? Like this is important to me because of reasons.

Anakin Skywalker is nine when Jedi and Queens and Angels fall onto his desert world. He doesn’t leave with them.

He wins their pod race and gets them their parts, but part of him can’t leave. His home is here. His brother is here. His mother is here.

He sees his mother practically beg the jedi master to accept him; not an open pleading, but he can see that she is playing up his skills, his value, his worth. He loves her for it. She wants to give him the best life possible. She wants to spare him the pain of living in slavery.

He won’t accept that. Not if he has to leave her behind.

_The jedi did not come here to free slaves._

That’s all Anakin has ever wanted. He won’t lose that part of himself. When Qui-gon takes him aside, Anakin whispers, “I won’t leave mom.” And Anakin can tell that Qui-gon wants to persuade him, but Anakin is not something to be bought and sold. “You don’t own me,” Anakin says, his head high and his hands shaking.

 He almost expects violence, but Qui-gon just frowns, his eyes dark. “Of course,” he says and he sounds tired. “I can do nothing about your mother right now, but I’m sure I could convince the council to help fund your case.”

Anakin doesn’t think that he sounds very sure, but he nods his head as if he believes him.

“I’ll come back once the Queen is secure,” Qui-gon promises. “I think you have a greater destiny, Anakin Skywalker.”

 

A few days later, Anakin wakes up from a dream, and tears are streaming down his face. Shmi holds him as he cries and sings old, old songs to him. He doesn’t know how or why, but he knows that Qui-gon Jinn is not coming back.

 OOO

Anakin Skywalker is twelve when he performs his first surgery, flesh parting beneath a sterilized scalpel, the slave before him biting down on their screams, their face twisted in utter agony. Shmi whispers words of strength in their ear and wipes away their tears with a rag. It’s similar to re-wiring a droid, except for the agony and the blood and the fact that if he fails he will either kill someone or make them explode.

He cuts a bit deeper, edging around the synthflesh wires twisted up into Maako’s chest cavity. They shudder and flinch and gasp, but they do not cry out. Anakin avoids an artery, and gestures for Kit to hold open the incision while he dismantles the device.

He holds himself perfectly still, his hands steady and his eyes sharp. He gently plucks away the wires, one by one, urging them out from the muscles and organs that they have burrowed into. This model of implant is new and expensive and very dangerous. After placement, it extends wire tendrils and forces the body to grow around them. Cutting or breaking them will trip the circuit and cause the device to explode.

Shmi is normally the one who would do this, but her hands are not steady enough, not anymore. Anakin has assisted enough to know what he is doing. That doesn’t stop him from being terrified. Being terrified doesn’t stop him from trying.

Finally, he plucks the explosive device out of the side of their chest with tweezers and drops it into a bowl. Beru rushes outside to bury it, far enough away that no one will know. Maako shivers, pain and exhilaration tearing through them. Kit sprays a blood blocker and hands Anakin a needle and surgical wire.

“You’re free,” Anakin whispers, his hands shaking and his heart singing in his chest. He sews up the incision and it comes out to precisely seven stitches. He feels something holy ignite in his veins, something burning and powerful. He looks up to see Maako’s gold eyes dripping tears and pained laughter coming from their throat. “You are free,” he says again, and he knows that this is his destiny.

 OOO

Anakin Skywalker is fifteen when he buys his freedom from Watto. He pours the credits into Watto’s palm and snatches his detonator from the table. Watto grumbles and grouches and asks if Aankin will throw his next pod-racing match so he can pay off a gambling debt. “As a favor, you know? I was pretty good to you and Shmi.”

Anakin grins, his face all open delight, still baby faced and young. “Fuck you.” He walks away and it feels like everything could not be more right with the world.

That night, Anakin extends his arm to Kitster and smirks. “I have a request from our resident artist.”

Kit looks up from the stacks of coded flimsi before him, blinking himself back to reality. Seeing Anakin’s face, he jumps out of his chair and pulls his chosen-brother into a hug. About time,” he says, something warm sinking into his voice. “So you wanted a womp rat, right?”

Anakin laughs, short and surprised. He shakes his head, but he can’t stop smiling. “If I wanted something hideous, I’d get your face.”

“You wound me, Ani,” Kit says, “You really do.” He rolls his shoulders and cracks his knuckles, and the sound is loud enough that Anakin reminds himself that Kit needs to walk and _move_ every now and then

“I know correspondence is important, but you can take breaks occasionally,” Anakin reminds. He pulls around a chair and sinks into it.

Kit calls out from the other room, “We’ve got about a hundred people on our wait-list—if their paths get screwed up, this will get nasty.”

Ankin winces when he hears the distinct sound of metal clashing together and something falling.

“Found it!” Kit announces. He bustles into the room and places an old case onto the table. He hands Anakin a bottle of anti-septic and begins to lay out the traditional tattoo inks and needles. Anakin dutifully wipes down his skin while Kit prepares everything. His motions are practiced, but Anakin can tell that his fingertips feel heavy with something meaningful.

When Kitster speaks again, it’s in Amatakka. “What can I give to you?”

Anakin replies in kind. “I ask for the mark of one with the power to choose.”

Kit nods and pulls Anakin’s arm a bit closer. The needle stings and burns, but Anakin would not trade away this pain for anything. He is free.

 OOO

Over dinner later that night Kit says, “It’s shitty that you had to pay for it just to be able to walk outside.”

Anakin shrugs. “I got the money by stealing so many ship parts that I’ve lost track, so I honestly couldn’t care.”

 


	2. Chapter 2

Kitster Banai is nine when he sees his mother for the last time. It’s almost like going to sleep with a candle and finding it burned out come morning. That’s how the masters treat it, at least.

For Kitster, it’s like going to sleep and waking up to find that the suns are gone. It’s like staying up late, only to see nothing in the sky. No moons. No stars. They’ve all been blown out, like a candle, like a little flame that is forever extinguished.

Gardulla tells him to shape up, or she will sell him too.

Ani is the one who keeps him whole. Ani is the one who sits by his side when he can’t sleep, who drags him to story tellers and makes him drink water.

Shmi is the one who protects him. She opens her home and mends his clothing and tells him the secrets to keeping yourself whole. Kit’s mother didn’t know this, she was forced into slavery, but Skywalkers have a _history_. There is a whole language, one deeper than even Amatakka, which Kitster still has to learn.

Skywalker is synonymous with slave in one language and synonymous with free in another.

As Shmi reveals how to twist language, how to hide rebellion behind deference, how to use the system to your advantage when you can, Kit thinks _free_ is far more fitting.

 

* * *

 

Kitster Banai is twelve when he convinces Ani to try to lift him off the ground.

“It worked with the cup,” he argues as the two of them stroll down the streets of Mos Epsa. The Sun-down rush is in full swing, everyone rushing to get inside before the light fades and the temperature drops.

Ani rolls his eyes. “You’re a bit bigger than a cup.”

Kit scoffs. “Not by much.” He glances over as if to check and see that, yes, Ani is still a full inch taller than him. The audacity.

“What if I drop you?”

Kit considers it. “I’ll probably fall to my death.”

Ani goes wide eyed and splutters, alarm written clearly across his face.

“If you try to do it off a cliff, that is,” Kit says, nonplused. “If we just try inside, I’m fairly certain I’ll land on my feet.”

Ani’s face scrunches up, but he shakes it off like he’s dismissing a bad taste. “I’m not sure. You’re really heavy. In comparison, of course.”

“Is it related to mass?” Kit asks curiously.

“Huh?”

Kit waves his hands around, his brows furrowed as he tries to express the idea in words. “Like, is it harder to lift heavier things? Was the cup more difficult than a spoon?”

Ani shrugs. “I don’t know; never checked.”

Kit sigh. “We should see if it is before we rule it out. If lifting heavy things is just as easy, imagine the jobs you could do.” The thought is a bit fanciful. To be inexpendable. To have an ounce of security.

Ani stills suddenly. “Watto can’t know,” he whispers, his voice still vivid through the static of the crowd around them.

Kit tilts his head, but Ani just repeats, with that same spark of fear in his blue eyes, “He can’t know, Kit. He’d sell me.”

And Kit feels his stomach drop away. He nods. “He’s never going to find out.” It isn’t an argument, but an agreement. A promise.

Ani bites his lip and swallows back his fear and nods in return. They make the rest of the trek back to their quarters, a gentle breeze whipping their hair askew. The sky is bright violet. Kit can’t see the suns, not with the buildings blocking the horizon. Still, he knows that they are floating over the dunes, slowly sinking past the desert.

They scuff their shoes on the mat to avoid tracking sand inside and enter the warm quarters. It turns out a cup is just as easy as a spoon. Kit is a bit of a different matter.

 

* * *

 

Kitster Banai is fifteen when his owner sells him to off world miners. It isn’t unexpected—she’s been threatening to for years. It had been an omnipresent anxiety when he was younger, but the threat lost its meaning, diluted by how many times it had been spoken before.

It had suddenly regained its meaning.

Anakin’s hand is still pressed into his mouth, keeping him hidden around the corner. Kit is thankful for it—it ensures that he won’t start screaming. That feels like an unlikely but dangerous possibility.

“I can deliver him tomorrow,” Gardulla drawls. Kit can picture her expression; well hidden contempt, like cold metal pressed to one’s throat. Hutt eyes carry the expression very well.

“I need it today,” the iroidian hisses in stilted huttese. “My crew needs to leave by nightfall to make it to the mining system.”

Gardulla hums unsympathetically. “That’s a shame. That kind of urgency will cost you extra.”

The iroidian growls, and Kit hopes for just one moment that this argument will turn into a shootout—either his master will die or—

 “Early in the morning,” they spit out finally. “I’m not giving you a credit more.”

“Deal.”

—and that’s the end of that hope.

Ani grabs his hand and drags him back down the hall way on silent feet, forcing Kit’s legs to cooperate. He swings both of them into a cramped closet, and the door whispers shut. Kit doesn’t dare move or even breathe. The only thing louder than the sound of his heart beat is the sound of footsteps walking past their hiding spot.

Just as silently, Anakin cracks the door open and steps out, his feet making not the slightest sound against the floor. Kit almost yells, but Anakin’s eyes are insistent and his grip is crushing and he pulls Kit into step behind him.

They make it out the door, the signal chirping once, before the irodonian notices them. Their hand flinches towards their blaster. Anakin acts as if he doesn’t notice. He simply keeps his head bowed and nods respectfully, his hand still pulling Kit forward.

It doesn’t quite work. The irodonian grabs Anakin by the shoulder and jerks him back. “Who are you?” they hiss. Their blaster is drawn and it’s jabbing into Anakin’s stomach. He doesn’t flinch.

Anakin looks up blankly. “We’re household aides of the most esteemed Gardulla the Hutt,” he murmurs, looking the irodonian straight in the eyes. “You don’t notice us.”

Kit sways on his feet, because Anakin’s voice is level and spoken as absolute truth, and for the barest second Ani just disappears from sight. The Irodonian blinks their bright galaxy specked eyes and tilts their head. Anakin shrugs off the death grip on his shoulder and turns away, not hurrying in the least.

He pulls Kit forward another block, and then down an alleyway. But then it stops working. Kit sees Ani marching forward, and he just as easily sees him doing so alone. Without Kit, because by morning Kit will be heading to another star system.

Then Kit’s legs don’t work at all and neither do his lungs. They’re both ineffectual and nonfunctioning; useless, really.  Legs that refuse to stand aren’t worth much. Lungs that can’t catch breath are worth even less. Kit slumps against the wall and tears at his hair, and he feels his insides turn hollow and writhe like vipers and he shudders like engines on the edge of exploding.

Kit wonders how many credits he’s worth right now.

“Kit,” Ani hisses, and he pulls Kit’s hands down and holds them gently, his eyes burning bright like the sky at midday.

 It isn’t midday, though, it’s sundown, and that means that Kit will be gone by morning. That means he will disappear and not come back. That means—

“Kit!” Anakin barks out. “I will protect you, but you need to listen.”

Kit is listening. Anakin has his complete and utter attention. His voice is all-consuming, like a black hole. To someone who feels like they’re dissolving in their own skin and ready to disintegrate into the wind, the gravity is crushing and welcome. “You need to report in—you have time. Just report in like normal and come home.”

Kit nods. Ani pulls him to his feet and brushes the dust and sand off of his clothes. His hand lingers on his shoulder, which is good, because Kit can’t quite remember how to find his way.

They hurry down bust streets, everyone rushing to get inside before the temperature drops. They reach main street and Anakin slides over to Beru’s stall, all smiles and calm happiness. “We need to remove it tonight,” he says evenly.

Beru’s eyes widen, but she just replies in the same tone, “We should have a long time ago.” She continues packing up and locking down at the precise same pace as before. Her hand brushes over Kit’s and when he manages to look away from his feet, her eyes are even and calm and a promise.

It’s her steady eyes and Anakin’s guiding hand that give Kit the strength to focus. He reaches Gardulla’s house and steps in once more. He’s late, and that should arouse suspicion, but the hutt doesn’t look up from her data pad. Kit turns over his work records and bows and turns to leave.

“I need you to repair that regulator by morning,” Gardulla sneers, and she waves to a monstrous thing littered with charred wires and smudged with blackened oil. His last job.

“Yes, my master,” Kit murmurs. He hefts it off the table and he knows suddenly that he won’t be able to get the oil stains out of his clothes.

“Also,” Gardulla calls out, her eyes boring into Kit, “come in early tomorrow. I have a task for you.”

Kit nods and bows respectfully and walks down the hallways from the atrium. He meets Ani by the door.

Anakin holds out his hand and Kit swallows back the doubts curling in his stomach. He throws the ragged regulator onto a passing cart. It’s swallowed by the sun-down crowd a moment later, never to be found. He grabs Ani’s hand and the two of them sprint back to the slave quarters.

 Beru meets them inside and shoves a cup of tzai into Kit’s hands before dragging Anakin away. The spiced warmth of it centers him, and Kit drinks it slowly. He hears the sounds of sheets being unrolled, of false floors being pried up; the normal sounds of an impromptu surgery. Kit knows those sounds well; he’s taken part in quite a few.

Shmi comes out of the kitchen and pulls Kit into a hug; the weight of her arms around his shoulders is familiar, sacred. “You will be safe,” she promises, whispering the words into his ear. “We will make sure that you are safe.”

He can practically feel his implant itching under his skin, burning a hole through his abdomen. Kit swallows back his fear and chokes out, “I know.”

Shmi keeps her arm around his shoulders, reassuring him even as she guides him to inevitable pain. He’s helped with a few of these surgeries. His hands weren’t nearly as precise as Ani’s, but he could hold people still, get them water, hand over supplies. He could help.

He had never quite had to appreciate the courage it took to lie down and allow a knife to slice through your skin. He’s seen it, he knows it can be done, but his heart races and his stomach twists. He sheds his shirt and sits down on the table that he would normally be having dinner at.

Beru flits in and hands him a wet cloth, cloyed with the sharp scent of antiseptic. His hands are shaking, but he takes it and jerkily scrapes it over his skin. His shiver turns into something violent, and Beru wraps her hands around his.

“It will be okay,” she promises. “You can get through this.” Her eyes are bright even in the dim room, burning with intensity. Whitesun. She who walks in the heat of the suns and remains unburned. The scions of Leia.

Banai. Nothing quite so poignant. Noble. It means noble, ironically, in some language that Kit doesn’t even remember well. It isn’t a promise to draw upon. It’s strangely meaningless.

Anakin sits next to him and leans his head on his shoulder. “It will be ok, Kit. You should just go to sleep.”

Kit’s eyes suddenly feel so heavy. He knows what Ani is doing. He slouches forward, his limbs exhausted, and it’s Beru and Ani who catch him and lower him back.

“Thank you,” he mumbles.

“Sleep.”

Kit sleeps.

 

* * *

 

He wakes up groggy and with an intense pain radiating up his left side. He doesn’t move, simply listens to the ragged hum of old repulsion engines. There’s a rough and heavy blanket draped over him, and he’s glad because the night air is cold on his cheeks. It takes him a few minutes to understand that he’s in the back of an open air ground speeder.

“You’re awake,” someone says.

Kit’s eyes have adjusted to the dark enough that he can make out the face of a blue skinned Twilek. They are sitting on a crate, slowly wrapping and unwrapping a leather cord around their palm. Kit’s throat is rough and his lips cracked, so he just nods.

“You’re heading west to lie low at some moisture farms for a few weeks until people quit looking for you.” The Twilek tosses a flat round disk onto Kit’s stomach. “Skywalker said to give this to you when you woke up.”

Kit clears his throat. “Thank you.”

The twilek shrugs and goes back to messing with their leather cord.

Kit manages to get his arms out from under the bantha blanket without rupturing anything. He brings the disk to his face, trying to pick out details in the low light. It’s an ancient holo player, but the visual display is wrecked and glitching. Kit opens one pre-recorded message and holds it to his ear.

“So, uh, if you’re hearing this it means everything went according to plan and we won’t be seeing each other for a few weeks,” Anakin says, “which sucks poodoo.”

The distinct sound of Beru smacking the back of Anakin’s head translates well over the speakers. “The surgery went fine,” Beru reports. “You’re looking at minimal scarring considering everything. Anakin used his magic powers to smooth things along.”

“They aren’t magic powers,” Anakin protests, and Kit can practically see him rolling his eyes.

Beru continues on as if there had been no interruption. “And we’re sending the tracking component onto another slaver ship early this morning. So that way it looks like you’ve been snatched—and Gardulla will activate it.”

“I’m going to place it under the fuel lines,” Anakin says.

“I recommended the thermal regulator, but Ani shut me down.”

“Fuel lines is a bigger boom,” Anakin says. “That means less evidence of a body.”

“I know, I know,” Beru says. “And Shmi is working her magic. You’ve got a cushy gig set up at this place called Lars Homestead.”

“Beru’s been wooed by the Owen guy, so of course she thinks it’s cushy.”

“He’s sweet, Ani. Not everyone needs to meet your standards.”

Kit wants to groan—he’s managed to avoid listening to Ani and Beru’s gossip but now he’s practically a captive audience. Thankfully, he’s saved by the sound of the front door closing. The audio rustles a bit, like the recording is being moved.

“Kitster,” Shmi says, and her voice is like water, like tzai. “We can’t risk communication for the next few weeks.”

Kit knew this, logically of course. It still hurts to hear it said.

And Ani, who Kit knows has just risked everything to pull an explosive out of his body, who is tired and covered in his blood, says, “But you’re free. And when we see you again, we’ve got work to do.” Kit can hear the joy in his voice, the burning joy. Ani has always run hot, and right now, cold and alone, the warmth is welcome.

“So watch out for the womp rats,” Beru warns. “Those things are vicious.”

“We love you,” Shmi says. “Remember that. Ar-amu watches your steps.”

“And we will meet again,” Ani says, his voice hushed. “That is fated.”

The transmission cuts out. Kit stares at it dumbly for a moment or two. He sets it on his chest and looks up at the dark ceiling. He is free. The stars are peaking through the back of the transport, a gap in the tarp throwing streams of light against the floor. Suddenly, he knows that he can travel. He can go among those stars by his own hand. He can take others to safety.

He is free and he will never lose his family again. Not while he lives.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if you enjoyed this please follow my tumblr goshersss i post little snippets and art for star wars


	3. Queen

 

Padme Amidala is fifteen when she decides that power is something she never quite valued enough.

After the Naboo Royal forces fail to break the siege, it becomes not a competition between two powers, but an endurance race with no end in sight. Theed burns for days, and there is not a moment to spare towards rebuilding. There is no rest. There is no time to mourn.

She’s thankful that Naboo culture favors cremation. And then she hates the sense of relief that it brings.

“The blockade has extended to telecommunication services. Our slicers can’t gain access to the holonetwork.” Sabe shuts her eyes. “We are in a zone of total blackout.”

It’s the worst news she’s heard all day.

“Why sould they bother?” Rabe says. “They already control hyperspace access. The effort that goes into controlling a holonet blackout is immense.”

Padme bows her head. Something bitter blooms at the back of her throat. “It’s so that no one can hear us scream.”

Master Kenobi speaks up for the first time that day. “The order will investigate.” He does not move from his meditative pose on the floor. He doesn’t open his eyes.

Ever-peaceful, that one is. He is a good Jedi. He does not mourn.

Padme centers her thoughts and raises her chin. There is no time to rest. There is no moment that she can afford to waste. “Master Jedi, I hope you are correct.”

 

* * *

 

Hope is such a useless thing.

The order never investigates.

The galaxy knows nothing of their burning.

There is no help or aid or assistance.

 

That is fine. Padme makes due.

 

* * *

 

Padme Amidala is eighteen when she first considers treason.

This is after the first mistrial. The galaxy is run by money, and suing those who hold it will never be an easy task. Even for war crimes, even for crimes against humanity, she knew it would be a drawn-out battle. She thought she was fine with that. That is the kind of war which she knows. One with no ending ever in sight.

She lets the Banking Clan know as much after the new court date is set.

Obi-wan escorts her back to her quarters on Courscant. The second the door closes, he wraps his arms around her, tucks his chin over the crown of her head. “There will be justice, Padme.”

She stands motionless. Obi-wan is always so certain in his words. Certain in the truth they hold. A jedi must have conviction, even if they are no longer a jedi.

It’s tragic that certainty has lost its value in the art of rhetoric.

“What if there isn’t?” She raises her head until she can meet Obi-wan’s eyes. “What if there is no justice?”

Obi-wan’s mouth opens to reassure or to convince. To pray. He is the Intercessor. It is in his nature.

One look at her face makes him reconsider his words.

Padme rubs salt in both of their wounds. “What if they decide to support the Banking Clan? Will the Jedi follow that directive?”

Obi-wan shuts his eyes. His words hold a different kind of certainty. The kind that Padme can believe in. “The Jedi will do as the council commands. The council will do as the senate commands.”

“And the senate will do as the credits command.”

Their certainty is not based on hope. And that is why it is valuable.

Obi-wan nods.

Slowly, Padme reaches up and cups his face, tracing her thumb over the thin scars that cross his cheeks. “Naboo cannot condone that,” she whispers.

He gazes down at her. “I know.”

Padme fans the fire in her words. She is burning. It is plain to hear in her voice. “ _I_ will not condone that.”

Obi-wan rests his forehead against hers. He breathes weary words over her lips. “Then let us hope that the Senate will not force our hand.”

Padme closes the gap between them and kisses him. With stolen breath, she agrees, sadly, desperately, “Let us hope.”

 

* * *

 

Hope is such a useless thing.

There are more mistrials.

There is no reparation.

Justice is buried under bureaucracy, money, and blood.

 

That is unforgivable. She will not be complacent.

 

* * *

 

Padme Amidala is twenty four when she becomes marked for history.

The morning of, she forgets to brush he hair as she runs over her speeches for the thousandth time that week.

“The red one?”

Sha glances at Obi-wan from her desk. He’s tracing the seams in the gown she will wear for the announcement.

“The color of royalty,” She says. “The color of justice.”

Obi-wan narrows his eyes, examining swooping length of the collar and the severe line of the shoulders. “Is this. . . Obsidian-wear?”

Padme’s mouth melts into a smile. “It is. You remembered.”

“I find it almost impossible to forget anything you say,” Obi-wan says.

Padme laughs, her heart warming. “It is a tricky subject,” she admits. “I would not be offended if you chose to focus on some other specialty of Naboo culture.”

Obi-wan crosses the room to stand by her side. “Your clothing often speaks as loudly as your words,” He says, “but only if I know how to listen.”

 She extends her hand to him and twines their fingers together. “Tell me, my love, what do you hear?”

Obi-wan brings her hand to his lips and brushes a kiss over her skin. “A promise.”

 

* * *

 

 The marks on her cheeks and lips are standard; they were the design she chose for her coronation. The tears below her eyes mark the lives and liberty lost under her rule; a remembrance and a mourning. She has a little time for that now. For today, she slices two mirrored crescents along her cheekbones.

A severance.

“My Lady,” Obi-wan says from the door way. “The galaxy awaits.”

Padme stares at her face and tries to find her own features under all the ceremony. She can’t. She is Queen. There is no time for the self.

She rises. “The galaxy does not know,” She says, her chin high and crown heavy with her headdress.

“You are right,” Obi-wan agrees. “The galaxy does not know that they wait.”

He is afraid. This goes against everything he knows. Uncertainty festers in the slant of his eyes, bubbles through the levity in his voice.

If Padme could be herself, she would be afraid too. But she isn’t. She is Queen Amidala, Protector and Champion of Naboo, Scion of Waterfalls, Maid of Liberty. And since she is such, and not a woman in love so deeply that it feels like a stab to the heart, she must ask, “Do you waver?”

Obi-wan’s storm-cloud eyes search and search for something familiar. Searches for something that even Padme cannot feel beneath the weight of her clothing and crown.

Perhaps he finds it. He crosses the room and bows, not a Jedi touchless greeting, but a reverence of one love to another. A symbol. A signal. A promise. “My Queen,” He says, “There is no where you can go that I would not follow.”

A jedi must have conviction, even if they are no longer a jedi.

Conviction, even in the face of uncertainty.

“My Knight,” She says, her throat tight and hands shaking, “There is no where I wish for you more than beside me.”

She is Queen. But perhaps there is room to love in this role. As long as they can both play their parts.

They walk to the throne room, Knight and Queen. Closer together than even the Handmaidens who surround them.

When the cameras role, Obi-wan is by her side, and Padme is fearless. The Queen is always wary, always afraid for the sake of her people. But in that moment, She is only furious. The injustices, the corruptions, the evils done to her people and to the people of the galaxy. The complacency by those who should be bound to do no harm, to protect, to serve.

Queen Amidala is burning, and when she opens her mouth to address the Galaxy in what will soon be on every holovid in the universe, the people can hear the fire in her voice.

“Ten years ago, the Trade Federation violated the sovereignty of a collective system and placed an unlawful blockade upon the people of Naboo. . .”

Hundreds of thousands of her people dead in the siege. Children who took up arms to defend their planet. Designed famines, orchestrated shortages, not an ounce of humanitarian aid sent to them during the disaster or since it ended. Not without it being contingent upon the whole system abdicating its internal sovereignty to a senatorial committee. The Naboo had to rebuild from the ground up. The Naboo had to change.

“Not only did the Galactic Senate attempt to undermine the sovereignty of a war torn system, they refused to extract justice when faced with well documented examples of war crimes and crimes against humanity. . .”   

And The Queen cannot be complacent with the injuries of her people. She must defend them with her life and blood, She must protect and serve. She must burn with her purpose, and that purpose must be just.

“The compliance and contempt for the people of Naboo is unforgivable. . .”

She is burning.

“The Galactic senate’s choices to actively support an institution that has destroyed the lives and independence of many entities which it claims to serve. . .”

She is burning and burning and burning, and one day she will have nothing left to fuel that fire.

“With all these cases, The Naboo no longer gives credit to the Republic or its political institutions, and therefore. . .”

But that day is not today.

“The Naboo System hereby withdraws from the Galactic Republic.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ngl i wrote this in like four hours, smash that like button and leave a comment if you want more, yall really need to thank Linnypants because without them i might have never bothered to post again
> 
> EDIT: huh so i didnt actually know how old obi wan was in TPM and it makes me a little uncomfortable so BAM he's 18 sorry i dont make the rules except wait i do and im not sorry

**Author's Note:**

> anyways check out fialleril if you want because her stuff gives this fic a lot more context. My tumblr is goshersss and I post some stuff about star wars occasionally. Also, im opening my writing commissions. if anyone is interested, please hit me up because I really need money


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